Shot on Location (18 page)

“Oh, you’re that Johnson,” Brad said. “Okay, I’ll be there. Thanks for calling me.”

He put down the telephone and threw back the blankets. It was a chilly morning. Slapping his arms across his chest to stir up circulation, he ran to the shower and turned on the water. Mission accomplished, he reflected, and it still seemed a strange way to earn the five thousand dollar evaluation Rhona had put on that diamond bracelet. A billfold containing less than three hundred dollars, a watch, sunglasses—The shower was continental style with a head like a French telephone and no curtain on the door. He could see the top of the dresser as he took mental inventory—a couple of cameras and a hypodermic syringe.

Brad let the water pour over his head, washing away the last vestige of sleep. Something was missing from the top of the dresser. He turned off the water and ran, dripping, back into the bedroom. He dropped to his knees and clawed about on the carpet, finding nothing but fluff for his trouble. He stood up and tallied the collection again, until his early-morning thinking apparatus could assimilate the obvious. The leather case, containing a syringe that was still half-filled with Harry’s injection, was gone.

Slowly and methodically Brad got into his clothes. Slowly and methodically he mentally catalogued all he had learned since his arrival in Athens, until, at last, he understood why the information about the contents of the syringe was wrong, and that there was one more thing to learn before he could be certain how he had murdered Harry Avery.

THE VEHICLE THAT carried Brad and Dr. Johnson to the air strip was an aging Volvo. There was no commercial airport. The strip was improvised in a wide meadow that had serviced military transports in past campaigns. Two planes were on the ground when they arrived: the larger transport from Athens and a smaller cabin job from Corfu. In addition to the planes, there were three other vehicles at the scene: the van that had conveyed the four bodies, a police car containing local officers and Zervios, a second taxi that brought Brooks Martins and Sam McKeough to supervise the departure, and, surprisingly, Pattison Blair’s Ferrari. The reason for the presence of the Ferrari was quickly discovered: she had driven Peter Lange, who insisted on accompanying Harry Avery on his last flight, as a legal duty.

“I expect there will be clearances to sign before the body can be released for burial,” he explained to Martins, as Brad arrived. “Everything will go smoother if I’m on hand.”

“That’s your privilege,” Martins said. “Dr. Johnson is flying back in the plane, too, and Zervios insists on accompanying his captain. With three coffins it may be a little crowded, Smith. McKeough and I are flying back to Athens this afternoon in our amphibian. We can take you with us. Might have a chat on the way.”

Brad, laden with what he still possessed of Harry’s effects, dug through his pockets for the cigarettes he had purchased at the hotel. They were Greek cigarettes. Lighting one, he remembered Katerina and her fierce pride. Zervios was already climbing up into the transport and his grim expression boded no good for anyone. Brad nodded in his direction. “What happens to the sister of Brisos now?” he asked.

“She concerns you?” Martins asked.

“She concerns me.”

“Then we’ll have to look after her. I think I can stretch my jurisdiction that far.”

“You won’t get to Athens until this afternoon.”

“I can telephone ahead.”

“Perhaps Smith is anxious to get back to Athens, so he can console Avery’s widow,” Lange suggested.

“I wouldn’t dream of stepping on your toes.”

“In that case,” Lange said, “why don’t you drive back with Miss Blair? She has a good, ten-hour drive ahead of her and it’s not the pleasantest of drives, for a woman alone.”

Pattison Blair stood a few feet away gazing out over the meadow, where a few sheep were grazing in the take-off path. Cloud veiled mountains in the background, completed a melancholy pastorale. At the sound of her name she looked up. “I don’t mind driving alone,” she said. “Of course, if Mr. Smith needs a ride—”

“What’s the other plane for?” Brad asked.

“The pilot of Avery’s plane,” Martins explained. “One of his fellow pilots from Corfu flew in yesterday, to pick him up. We set up this time so what’s left of the working press wouldn’t know about it and confuse the operation.”

“It’s going to Corfu, then?”

“That’s right.”

When the third coffin had been loaded into the transport, the van drove to the smaller plane to discharge the last of its cargo. Brad broke away from the group and approached the pilot. English was spoken, however brokenly, and when he returned to the others a deal had been made.

“I must be more likeable than I thought,” he said. “Here I am with three modes of transportation and I have to refuse them all. I’ve decided to go to Corfu.”

Peter Lange’s icy calm fragmented slightly.

“Corfu?” he echoed. “Why do you want to go to Corfu?”

“Maybe I think George is getting short-changed. Nobody seems to care what happens to him.”

“Why should they? He has family waiting to bury him on Corfu.”

“Good. Then I’ll go to the funeral.”

“I never heard of anything so stupid in my life! What shall I tell Mrs. Avery? She’s expecting you.”

The pilot of the small plane had climbed into the cockpit and was warming up the motor. He beckoned across the field and Brad took off towards the plane at a trot.

“Tell her to wait,” he yelled back over his shoulder, and the sound of the motors drowned out Lange’s explosive reply. Moments later the small plane moved slowly down the runway, while the men from the van drove away the grazing sheep. The last thing Brad saw through the window was Peter Lange’s bewildered expression.

The flight was brief and uneventful. By the time the plane approached the Corfu airfield, the saffron coast of Albania half a mile behind them and the lush green of the olive groves below, Brad had learned a little more about George Ankouris. He was a bachelor. He had received his flight training from the British and, later, the Americans and fought against the Communists under Van Fleet. He lived in an apartment on the beach, liked girls, and was survived by an uncle and a spinster cousin, both of whom were waiting at the end of the runway when the plane landed. As the pilot taxied towards a hangar, bearing the inscription, in English, G. Ankouris, Charter Flights, Brad could see two sombre faced people, standing near a waiting hearse. The man, heavily moustached, had to be the uncle; the other, a woman, was wearing the traditional funeral black. But standing apart from them was another woman whose rapt attention was on the small plane. When the door opened on a hastily manoeuvred boarding platform, he scrambled down, just behind the pilot and stepped aside to make way for the men, who had come with the hearse. Now he could see the woman at closer range. She, too, wore black but of a different cut. Form fitting, it accented the youth of her body. She was not more than twenty-two. Her dark hair was Italian-cut, her eye lashes were heavy, and she wore narrow gold rings in her ears.

Brad nudged the pilot. “Do you know that woman?” he asked.

The pilot nodded. “George’s,” he said. “Uncle Andreas disapproved. Uncle Andreas has the money. No marriage.”

Brad decided to forego meeting Uncle Andreas and the cousin, veered away as they approached the plane, and walked towards the girl. At still closer range she appeared to be twenty-five or twenty-six. Her eyes were olive-coloured and looked almost oriental. He smiled and she started to turn away.

“Don’t go—please,” he said. “I knew Harry Avery. He told me that George had a girl on Corfu.”

“Harry Avery?” she echoed.

“That’s right. He was a friend of George’s, wasn’t he?”

There was instant fire in her eyes. She might be part Turkish, he decided. “That is a joke?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Harry Avery paid George money to fly around in his plane. That is business. That is not friend.”

“But you were George’s friend?”

“Yes, until—”

“Until what?”

“Why should I tell you this? Who are you?”

“My name is Smith. I knew Harry Avery. I know Rhona Brent.”

“Oh, that one!”

Brad detected a clear note of envy. “Did George know Rhona Brent, too?”

“That one, like you say, was friend.”

“George’s friend?”

“What you think? She is not my friend! She is too grand.”

“George was a climber, too?”

“Climber? What is climber?”

“George was ambitious.”

The girl didn’t answer. She stared towards the plane, where George’s coffin was now being removed. Both the uncle and the cousin were sobbing violently. The girl extracted a face tissue from her handbag and brushed away a few quick tears. “This is too sad,” she said abruptly. “I go now.”

“You’re too upset to go alone,” Brad told her. “Lean on me.” He took her arm and they started walking towards the cab stand. Passing the tie-down, she stopped and glared at a huge new twin-engine cabin plane.

“Two, three years I loved George,” she said. “I could have married rich man, but I loved George. You think he would leave me something, no?”

“Maybe he was broke.”

“Oh, no! He showed me this plane. ‘One more trip with Harry Avery, and I buy this,’ he said. ‘Then I make so much money we don’t need Uncle Andreas.’ One more trip.”

“When did he tell you that?”

“Last Sunday.”

“The day before the flight with Avery?”

“Yes.”

“That looks like an expensive plane,” Brad admitted.

“It costs 10,000 English pounds.”

Brad whistled under his breath. “I wonder what he had on Avery.”

“Had on?”

“An American expression. Look, why don’t I take you home? You do have a home?”

“I have apartment near the Casino, where I work.”

“Good. We can talk in the cab. Taxi—”

They got into the cab together and she gave the driver the address. When they were under way Brad said: “I thought maybe you lived at the beach with George.”

“Oh, no. George has office in his apartment.”

“Do you have the key?”

She smiled coyly. “Yes.”

“Then why don’t we go there first? Maybe he did leave you something. Sometimes a man has a premonition about his own death. If he did leave something, you don’t want it to go to Uncle Andreas or the cousin.”

She thought that was a good idea and instructed the driver accordingly. The driver muttered a Greek curse and made a sharp U turn that took them away from the city towards the suburbs. It was about a ten minute drive before the cab stopped in front of a row of modern, middle-class apartments and the girl, key in hand, hopped out. Brad followed. The driver held out his hand and Brad told him to wait. He followed the girl to the door, which was already opening under the application of her key. George was a lousy housekeeper. Magazines and maps were strewn over the living room and two glasses were on the bar. One had a lipstick insignia. Brad sniffed. Very stale martini.

“Look in the bedroom,” he suggested.

The bed was unmade and George’s pyjamas were bunched on the floor. The wardrobe door was open. The girl let out a little feminine squeal and began to rake through the hangers. She took out a pale blue, chiffon negligée and held it up under her chin.

“This he left me,” she announced defiantly.

“Finders keepers,” Brad said.

The apartment was furnished in sparse, Danish modern—stark but colourful. He found a teak desk, under the shuttered windows, and began to comb through the drawers. The first drawer was filled with stationery.

“You like this one?”

He turned around and saw that she had found a red stain
negligée
and slipped it on over her mourning black. “It’s you,” he said.

“And there is nightgown, too.”

“I’ll take your word for it that it fits,” Brad said. He turned his back, so she couldn’t see what he was doing, and then took out Harry’s wallet and removed four fifty dollar bills. He slipped them inside the envelope, sealed it and turned around. “I was right,” he said. “Here’s a sealed letter. It must be for you.”

She tossed the red gown on the bed and ran to snatch the envelope from his hand. She ripped it open and her eyes grew wide and moist. “Such a sweet man,” she cooed. “He left me something.”

“Yes. Now let’s get out of here before Uncle Andreas comes.”

“I take the nightgowns, too.”

“I like the red best,” Brad said.

“I take the blue, too.”

Without letting go of the envelope, she piled the garments over her arm. She looked back, wistfully, at the still incompletely ravaged wardrobe, as he steered her back through the apartment and out of the door. The cab was waiting. He helped her in and handed the driver a ten dollar bill. As he closed the door, she cried out: “You come with me?”

“Later,” Brad said.

“But you don’t know where I live!”

“That makes the chase more interesting. Goodbye, now.”

“Come to the casino,” she cried, as the cab lurched forward, “I dance—”

Brad waved until the cab was out of sight, and then returned to the apartment, which he had carefully neglected to lock. Once inside, he put on the safety catch and began a thorough search. Not for an instant did he believe that Harry Avery would pay anything like ten thousand English pounds for a charter plane. He hadn’t made his millions with that kind of sloppy accounting. George must have had another source of income and some method of tabulating. He returned to the desk and began to search the other drawers. The first item of interest he found was a chequebook, with a balance of less than 12,000 drachmae, under 400 dollars. He couldn’t have bought the twin-engine plane with that. He looked for other bank books, examined every scrap of paper and came up with nothing, until he reached the bottom drawer of the desk. It was locked. He prised open the lock with a letter opener and there, all by itself on the bottom of the drawer, he found the one thing he needed to make everything compute. The teaser, the down payment, the promise of riches to come. Some people got into a rut.

It was a diamond bracelet—the twin to the one Rhona had left in his bed.

Well, it was a long way from Arizona where the wind howls in across the desert, the sun beats down, and a lovely young girl waits and wonders if this is all the life she will ever have. And then one day a salesman comes by, with big talk about Hollywood, and the dreams begin. Something like that was running through his mind, as he picked up the bracelet and held it up to the light. Something like that. He put the bracelet into his coat pocket and walked to the still open wardrobe. The girl had missed a couple of negligées, but they weren’t Rhona’s style. She wouldn’t have had to go that far with George unless she was looking for thrills, and she was too good a business woman to play that risky a game, right under Harry’s nose. If he were a detective, he could probably have the lipstick on the martini glass analysed and come a lot closer to the truth. Martini was an American drink. It was enough to know that a woman had been with George, just before his last flight. It was enough to know that George had received one of Rhona’s retainers.

It was a long way from Arizona.